


The Stars We Are

by sterne



Series: Wholly Inexorable [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vikings, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 06:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterne/pseuds/sterne
Summary: Just a little more in the Viking & Modern AU. Their time together comes to an end in one life, but fate has more in store.This follows the events of Wyrd.





	The Stars We Are

Kylo’s gaze traces along the sinuous curve from the bow to the stern, a line in wood carefully hewn to his exacting specifications. The expense of hiring a famed master shipwright of Northumbria, where they have experience building ships in the style of the Danes, has been only one of many in outfitting this vessel properly for its journey. The rich cargo of goods intended for the little ship has been gathered at his direction, some from his kingdom’s storehouses, some acquired in haste from traders for this purpose. For the past week, he has shirked all of his official duties but this. Today, he personally supervised the arrangement, layer by layer, of ballast rocks, several fine cloaks, gold cloak-pins, ivory combs, a box of dice, a chess set, gold torcs, wooden toothpicks, a drinking horn, a polished bronze mirror and strigil, a clay pot of gold and silver coins, and more - all topped by a layer of furs.

He thinks of the last time they flung themselves back onto their fur-lined bed, sweating, sides heaving, everything softened in a contented post-coital glow. Armitage had looked at him with a closed-lip smile, eyes sly, and made an amused remark. He wishes he could remember now what it was. 

This pile of wealth, more than most will ever amass in a lifetime, does not feel sufficient, but there’s no more room in the hold. He looks across the ship and the mound of dirt beside it to the cliff’s edge and the grey sea beyond. His thoughts are muffled and slow, unable to climb out of the groove that grief has worn down in his mind over the past week. Kylo wonders whether he will be able to find any sort of satisfaction or comfort during whatever years remain to him in this life, and doubts that he will. He wants none of this: not the ship, the goods, the mound, none of it. He does not want to be here. He most especially does not want to see this task through to completion, but the most valuable treasure has not yet been laid in place.  

Everything is in readiness, no more excuse to delay. Indeed, the warming spring weather makes it imperative that the final preparations be finished as quickly as possible - his feelings cannot not be indulged any further. Kylo takes a deep breath, stiffens his shoulders, and turns to give the command.  
  
“It is time - bring it up,” calls the king, then faces the sea again.

Word passes quickly down the hill, through the marketplace in the town, and into the castle courtyard where a loaded wagon waits to be drawn up the gentle slope, its contents lovingly arranged by the ladies of the king’s household. 

Slowly the squeak of wooden wheels and the muted scuffling of a large number of people on foot coming up the hill intrude into the gentle soundscape of wind and waves that has soothed his weary soul all day. The wagon has arrived.

He remembers so clearly the first time they saw each other, the day Armitage arrived in Wessex. He had stood, tall and defiant, at the prow of a dragon-ship, flanked by his countrymen come to deliver their lord’s son to his betrothed and seal the pact. Kylo’s heart had lurched in his chest as he took in the bright flame of hair that flew sun-struck in the breeze like a battle flag.

He feels the presence of his husband - a bloom of warmth at his side, the lightest sensation of a fingertip in his palm - for just a moment. It fades, but a sense of benediction remains.

He can do this, now.

Kylo stands by the ship, impassive, as Armitage is carefully transferred from the wagon to the soft topping of furs. All that remains to be added are his sword and shield. This task is for him alone to perform. The sword he lays on Armitage’s chest, hilt over heart, and ghosts of the many times they fought side by side pass through his mind. Their intuition for when the other needed assistance on the field of battle had grown as they slowly began to accept and trust one another.

The battered wooden shield, its metal rim and center boss dented and scraped from many encounters with spears, arrows, and swords in innumerable clashes, goes on last. He takes it from the wagon and places it on his husband’s shins, its top edge covering the lower end of the sword and securing it in place. 

He permits himself to look, one last time.

All the long years of their marriage have not left much of a mark: Armitage’s skin is still smooth and pale, his freckles light, his slim body only slightly wasted by the brief and sudden illness that ended his life. His red hair is faded and touched with grey at the temples, but is still as thick as it had been on their wedding day. Armitage never cut it in the Anglo-Saxon style, but kept it long, in homage and connection to his homeland. Early this morning, Kylo combed and braided it, adorned it with rings and charms as Armitage had liked to arrange it in life. It is Kylo’s last private act of devotion to the body of his husband. 

He does not let his gaze linger there, or on Armitage’s face. His eyes are drawn instead to his upper arm, where sunlight glints on an armband. True to his word, Armitage never took it off once Kylo placed it there, two years after they’d been wed. It was a symbol, not only of courage for his deeds in battle, but also of the real beginning of their marriage, after the resentments of a forced relationship faded. One sweet caress with his fingertip across the woven gold wires is all he can manage and still maintain his composure. He stands back and nods.

Someone - Mitaka? - pats his back lightly, just under his shoulder blade, an unspoken condolence. His thoughts touch fleetingly on Armitage’s fascination with that exact spot and a pattern of moles that was apparently there - Kylo had never been able to see it himself - which he called ‘Fiskikarlar’ after the Fisherman who arose in the winter sky with his belt, knife, and fishnet. He supposes that no one will look upon those moles again, his own constellation, until his body is washed for burial. 

Eight attendants step forth to place the final layer of furs, then take up the ropes, lifting the ship. The supporting planks are removed, and they slowly lower it into the ground. The king does not watch directly when they begin shoveling the mound of dirt back into the hole. He does not want to think of that beloved face, that hair, that body in which he had found so much comfort and pleasure, being covered by dirt, forever.  
  
No Christian priest will bless this pagan burial, and there are no holy men who follow the gods of the Danes to be found in Wessex, so the king offers this silent prayer: _God be with you, my love. My god or your gods. If there is any mercy in the next world, we shall be together again in the drinking halls of Valhalla, or in heaven, or some other place. You take my heart with you._

He stands alone by the burial mound on the clifftop for a long, long time, looking at the sea.

\--------

Hux grabs his tea and bagged breakfast sandwich from the cashier, already turning to dash out the door - he’s got to rush a little, which he hates, to catch his train to Cambridge. King’s Cross is as usual packed with people, but the soaring glass roof keeps it from feeling too claustrophobic.

It’s been three months almost to the day since he met Ben Solo at the edge of a pit on a cliff, three months since he was momentarily struck speechless by Ben’s soulful brown eyes, film star hair, and fit physique. Three months since those eyes and that hair and other conjectured parts replaced all others in Hux’s near-nightly fantasies, their lewdness escalating to a point yesterday when he found himself, redfaced, having to duck into the tiny loo at his favorite lunchtime chicken tikka place.

He has never wanked so much even in the first flush of adolescence, much less in a public bathroom in the middle of the day. During their first three meetings at the dig site, his finesse in flirting and reading the intentions of others honed over fifteen years of an active dating career went utterly offline, scared away by the immense and irrational attraction he felt toward Ben.

He cannot even fall back on a well-practiced line or give a pointed and burning look; this just...isn’t like that. He has restrained himself from stalking Ben’s social media accounts in search of evidence that he might be interested in men, because what he finds there might hurt. Even though the turbulence of an unprecedentedly strong attraction is unsettling, he prefers to experience that rather than a potential rejection or to discover definitive evidence that there is no possibility of a relationship between them.

Today, they will meet at Ben’s lab in Cambridge to document and plan the identification, conservation, and eventual display of the artifacts that Ben’s team have unearthed from the ship burial. He passes the hour and thirty minute ride sipping his tea, eating, and idly flicking through news stories on his phone, his thoughts mostly of Ben and the work-only but still very stimulating conversations they’ve had so far.

He easily finds the red brick building that houses the Department of Archaeology. It takes a conscious effort not to run his hands over his hair or shoot his shirt cuffs or make sure his belt buckle is centered correctly or any of a dozen other nervous preening gestures while he waits for Ben to come up to the vestibule and escort him to the lab, but that’s irrelevant now - he hears the _ding_ of the elevator arriving. The doors slowly slide open and there he is, Ben. Just making eye contact, his chest feels light and buzzy.  
  
“Hux! Did you have have any trouble finding us?” Ben asks, a wide smile warming his face.

“No, it was quite simple - and I have been here before, although not for several years,” Hux answers. He can feel his own polite, collegial smile splitting open and crinkling the outer edges of his eyes. _Armitage! Dial it down,_ he admonishes himself. _Keep this professional._

“Good, good,” Ben replies, nodding toward the elevator and lightly brushing Hux’s forearm with his own as he turns back to press the call button. The doors open and they enter. Ben keeps up a steady flow of news about the completion of field work at the dig site, items that have been found or identified since the last time they met, and the work that’s been undertaken so far to stabilize the more fragile of the artifacts. _There it is again - is he pressing up against my arm on purpose? It’s probably nothing. Focus!_  
  
They arrive at their floor and exit the elevator, turning into the narrow corridor that houses the lab.  
  
“How may we at the Museum assist?” Hux asks, when Ben reaches a break in his newscast.  
  
Ben pauses to unlock the door, and leans just slightly closer to Hux than is warranted by the situation. “We were hoping we could send some of the coins to you - all of the gold is in an excellent state of preservation, as you’d expect, but the silver ones need some work.”

“We shall be glad to - I’ll make the arrangements as soon as I get back to my office.” Hux is the British Museum’s specialist for early Medieval European coins, so he will be the one to work on this project. He is also wondering - _is this flirting? Or just a sort of...casual absent-mindedness?_

They spend the next two hours looking at the progress that’s been made on cleaning and stabilizing the artifacts and discussing what further work will need to be done. Hux’s mind has started to drift - there have been a few more close leans, arm brushes, and very memorably, a thigh pressing alongside his for a split second while they were standing at a worktable examining a sword. Ben reached across Hux’s personal space to pull the protective covering back over it, and Hux had to steel himself not to jolt as he felt it, warm and solid, pushing lightly against his outer thigh and almost immediately withdrawn. All of this is _just_ within the realm of innocuous and accidental touches... _but, that thigh-press,_ Hux savors. 

Ben interrupts this thought. “Oh - I forgot to mention, the DNA results came in yesterday - the ship fellow is I1,” referring to the Y-DNA of the remains. This particular DNA haplogroup is strongly associated with Norse origins and is found in all places invaded by ancient Germanic tribes and the Vikings.

“I’m I1 as well,” Hux notes, oddly pleased by the coincidence. One of his mother’s cousins had talked him into getting his DNA tested, to preserve at least some of her genetic profile. 

“Well, you have a common ancestor with Shippy, then - you and around 18% of men in the British Isles, of course - so that’s your cousin in there,” Ben jokes, pointing toward a long box resting on a padded metal table. It’s not unusual that modern British people are found to have clear genetic links to ancient remains found in British soil, but - this is his own self that’s connected, not some random stranger. He is not even aware that he has raised his right index finger to rest on his lower lip as he thinks about this distant relative of his, dug up by Ben Solo three months ago from his resting place of a thousand years.

It only comes to his attention because he realizes that Ben is looking at his lips. Looking very intently at his lips. Three months of wondering...all of these touches today. He has to - he just has to know, so he drags his finger lightly down to the edge of his bottom lip, enough to pull it apart from the upper. There’s a hint of saliva on his inner lip, cooling with exposure to air, which means it is visible to Ben. 

There. There - it is unmistakeable. _Unmistakeable_ , he thinks, with a carnal thrill. Ben’s gaze is riveted on Hux’s lips, and his eyes have widened, his nostrils have flared. Hux keeps his own gaze steady when Ben’s flicks upward to meet it, and gives a small, but knowing smile.

_Got you._

\--------

Two weeks later, Hux’s eyes are dry and aching from the hours he has spent curling over his work table, painstakingly cleaning and conserving centuries-old silver coins. There’s just one more that needs to be sealed with micro-crystalline wax tonight, so he ignores his slight headache, readjusts his magnifying glass lamp, and gently applies the wax to the cleaned coin.

Finishing, he stretches his cramped muscles, puts his tools away, secures the coins in the lab’s locked storage room, and turns out the lights. The halls are quiet, most of his colleagues having already left in their determination to make the most of this bank holiday weekend - deputy directors to charming country villas and the last events of the summer season; mere curators such as himself stuck in London in the muggy August weather. The lower levels of the civil service pay scale don’t extend to weekends in Provence or the Glyndebourne Opera Festival. Ordinarily, thinking about this would fill him with sour resentment, but not tonight. Tonight, he has a date. A first date. He checks his wristwatch to be sure - he has 15 minutes until he is due to meet Ben at the Great Russell Street entrance.

He passes his office (“A.B. Hux - Curator: Early Medieval European Insular Collections”) on the way to the nicer of the two men’s lavatories on his floor. He washes his hands, checks his hair, and gives his outfit a last glance - light green linen dress shirt, brown belt, khaki pants, brown loafers. All the while adrenaline is slowly pervading his system, making every thought and sensation keener.   

He joins the flow of patrons leaving as the museum closes - everyone on the staff hates these late summer Friday night hours, but they’re undeniably popular with tourists - and spots Ben, in dark jeans, grey t-shirt, and a tailored dark grey jacket, looking at a rack of brochures. His regard travels over Ben’s hair, _that fucking gorgeous hair_ , his profile that Michelangelo would have dropped everything to sculpt had he been lucky enough to see it, his solid arms and chest, those thick thighs...before he can swoon over the combined effect of it all, Ben notices him and his face appears to take on a glow as he strides toward Hux.

He has time to think _I can’t believe this man is here to go on a date with me_ before Ben extends his hand for a greeting. It is large and strong, clasping around Hux’s. So warm. Safe. It’s the first time their bare skin has touched, and Hux feels rather like he’s reached the top of the first and highest hill of a roller coaster and the carriage is poised to let gravity take over and begin the wild descent. Then Ben tilts his head and shoulders closer and says in a low voice, “You look really nice,” and he goes over the edge.

\--------

Hux rests his elbows on the bar and eyes his newly empty third gin and tonic with surprise - he’s usually a slow drinker. He looks up to catch the bartender’s attention, but Ben is already pointing at his own nearly empty Manhattan and ordering another round. They’re twenty minutes into a discussion of whether the so-called Elgin Marbles ought to be returned to Greece (Ben: fuck yeah, Hux: qualified maybe). Their thighs have been gradually converging for at least ten of those minutes, and he’s already at the stage of drunkenness where awareness of the people around him has dimmed, except for Ben, who seems to have been illuminated by a stage lighting expert. He knows his face is openly telegraphing a sort of dazed wonderment, enthrallment even, because it’s reflected back to him in Ben’s own expression.  
  
The astringent flavor of his fresh G&T brings him back to Earth for a moment.

“Should we order some dinner?” he asks Ben, who crowds into Hux’s side and places his hand on Hux’s thigh, just above the knee _his palm is so wide it nearly spans the width of my leg_ and says, “No....let’s get out of here,” - and it’s clear that the unspoken remainder of that sentence is “...and fuck.”

He actually feels his pupils dilating.

\--------

Ben has his arm around Hux’s waist and his hand is urgently sliding over the slight indentation there where his hipbone protrudes. “Is it much further?” he asks in a husky rush, and his lip grazes along the outer edge of Hux’s ear. “No! Just...just up this street,” is his breathy answer, and he encloses Ben’s hand in his and pulls, leaning toward his flat in an effort to get there faster.

The second the door shuts behind them Ben is on him, sucking Hux’s lower lip into his mouth and sliding his tongue up under it, down Hux’s chin. Hux opens his mouth with a groan of relief and slides his arms under Ben’s to grasp his shoulders from behind and crush their chests tightly together.  Ben’s dick _God it’s big...knew it would be_ is already hard against his stomach; he tilts his hips to rub his own quickly stiffening dick on Ben’s firm upper thigh.

Ben pauses his project of sucking and licking everywhere his lips and tongue can reach.  
  
“Let me see you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and runs his hands up Hux’s chest, lightly scoring his nipples with the edges of his thumbnails through his shirt. This wins a sharp inhalation of breath from Hux, who maybe shears a button off in his haste to bare himself. The look of open-mouthed, besotted adoration on Ben’s face as he takes in Hux’s milky skin, pink-tipped chest, and soft, gently toned abs, which look almost delicate in the moonlight coming through the living room window, is potently gratifying. He eases Ben’s jacket off and when he turns back from draping it on the arm of his sofa, he’s just in time to see Ben whip his t-shirt off and _oh my God he is STRAPPING._

“Bed,” he gets out, and shoes, belts, trousers, socks, and underpants line the hallway that Hux pushes Ben along, backward, into his bedroom.

\--------

Hux has always been an early riser, his eyes opening just as pale early morning sunlight begins to give the room a faint pastel glow. He stretches, luxuriating in the pleasant muscle ache from last night and the cozy warmth of another body in his bed. The light is strong enough that he can clearly see the swoops of Ben’s black hair on the pillow, his neck, shoulders, the curving muscles of his naked back; he can look without interruption while Ben still sleeps. A cluster of - moles? freckles? on Ben’s shoulder catches his eye. There are three dark ones in a nearly straight line, two or three faint ones nearby, also in a line, at an angle to first, and four medium ones. These last four are like the endpoints of an X superimposed on the pair of lines, separated by a hand’s width. Taken together, this arrangement looks remarkably like the constellation of Orion.

In the liminal space of dawn, one of the few strong memories he has of his mother surfaces in his thoughts. Orion is the first pattern of stars she taught him to recognize. She showed it to him on an evening walk when she was still well enough to go outside, holding his six-year-old hand as she pointed out Betelgeuse, Rigel, Alnitak. It has been his favorite ever since, predictably appearing in the late fall, telling the story of the Hunter, with his belt and knife, across the winter sky as it has done for thousands of years.

He leans in to press a soft kiss on the moles and freckles.

When Ben turns over, his eyes meet Hux’s and he smiles, slow and sleepy. It feels to Hux like a differential equation that he has been working on in the back of his mind since puberty, since birth, has finally been completed and solved.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Gefionne for a much-needed verb tense beta of the Viking portion.
> 
> Series title and Wyrd are from a line in the 8th century Anglo-Saxon poem _The Wanderer:_ "Wyrd bið ful aræd" ("Fate remains wholly inexorable").
> 
> [The Stars We Are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4CwsXuWp4I) is a great song by Marc Almond.


End file.
